


Teumessian, Found

by Pholo



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Burn Wounds, Communication, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, Other, Peter fakes his death, Peter: existence is a prison, Sepsis: you are like a little baby watch this, Sickfic, Trans Peter Nureyev, also Peter kills some people in this fic, and he's not very nice about it, bet you can't tell I listened to Over the Road recently, how many times can I get away with nearly killing Peter Nureyev, like...from laser guns, there's blood y'all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:27:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25054624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pholo/pseuds/Pholo
Summary: With the crew's lives on the line, Peter fakes his death.
Relationships: Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel
Comments: 81
Kudos: 249





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Some fic background: Peter waited for the crew to get the Cure Mother before he ran off with the rest of their loot, so...at least there's that.

> “Are we living a life that is safe from harm? Of course not. We never are. But that’s not the right question. The question is, are we living a life that is worth the harm?”
> 
> ― _Welcome to Night Vale_

A cab bumbles along over the countryside. It’s an old model—old enough that Peter can feel the rattle of the hover-engine under his feet. A dinky air freshener bobs around on the rearview mirror; Peter remembers his trip to Kayata, and the way the bamboo trees rustled with festival-goer’s paper wishes.

He turns his head and stares resolutely out the car window. The air conditional clicks on, and the driver says, “2958, right?”

There’s a duffel bag slumped over Peter’s lap like an old house cat. He plays with the zipper. “That’s right.”

“Big red roof?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Mmm.” The GPS beeps. “These damn country houses…can never keep track…”

Peter cranes his neck to get a better look at the world below. Long stretches of field roll by, the scant farmhouses like rocks breaking the surface of a vast, green ocean. Weathervanes and roof ventilators catch the light. From this height Peter can make out a few cows.

Finally the driver says, “All right. This should be you.”

As the cab descends, Peter fishes out his wallet. Drivers remember customers who don’t tip after a long ride, and Peter wants to be as forgettable as possible.

The driver lets Peter off at the driveway of another sun-stained farmhouse. Peter slips out of the cab and onto the road.

“You be careful,” the driver tells him. Peter passes him his tip, which he pockets. “Strange stuff goes on, this far out of town.”

“I won’t be out long, but thank you."

The driver shrugs. He nudges his thrusters; the cab coughs once, then ascends. 

For a while Peter stands there on the driveway. The synth-wind plays with his undone collar. It’s been a very long time since he smelled the Brahman countryside.

Then Peter hitches the strap of his duffel bag higher over his shoulder and walks off the driveway, towards the barn that squats like a giant red toad some twenty yards from the farmhouse.

Someone must have been on lookout, because one of Sorine’s goons sneaks out between the barn doors. Ellis. Peter’s not sure whether to be concerned or placated by the fact that Sorine has chosen to send her right hand man. Ellis rolls his sleeves higher on his wrists as he walks.

“Peter,” Ellis greets. Peter punches down the memory of the last time he heard that name—the sound of ragged grief. “Early as always. Cab find you all right?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Peter's shoes crunch on the rocky earth as he stops. “Now bring out the rest of your posse before I come to my senses.”

Ellis stops too. “Drones and cars still fly out here, fox. If you don’t want to get caught, you’ll need to get out of the open." 

"You and I both know there will be plenty of time to make this trade before the next car comes by." He looks around and grins. "You must have a reason to arrange a handoff this out of the way, Ellis—a Tohler mole, perhaps? Wouldn’t want the council to know you’ve withheld such a powerful weapon from their arsenal…”

Ellis grins right back. “That a threat, Peter?”

“Oh! No, no. I’m much too busy to start a civil war.” Peter thumps his bag against his hip. When Ellis doesn't move, Peter says lowly, “I won’t take another step towards that barn, Ellis.”

Ellis has a look on his face like he’s not sure whether or not he could drag Peter the rest of the way. Peter stands his ground. It will be harder for Sorine’s goons to shoot him down out here, where Peter can’t be snuck up on or trapped between walls and locked doors. At this point Peter can’t afford to lose any advantage, however small. 

To his credit, Ellis knows when he’s lost a fight. He groans and goes to fetch his cronies.

Peter looks on as the rest of Ellis’ crew filters out of the barn. He recognizes Adena—another of Sorine’s favorites. One goon keeps a not-so-subtle hand poised over the blaster at their hip; a taller, skinny man hands Ellis a briefcase. Ellis dusts a few strands of hay off the lid.

The four goons fan out around Peter to form a loose half-circle. Once they’ve settled, Ellis says, “Show us the loot.”

“Show me the motherboard,” Peter counters.

Ellis purses his lips, then moves them side to side. “Show us the blade and the book,” he decides, “and we’ll show you the motherboard,”

“The blade and the map.”

“Fine.”

Peter nods. He twists the bag over his shoulder to get a better angle on the zipper; his prizes rattle. He pulls out a black box. Peter enters a long string of letters and numbers on one side—slow enough to drive home the fact that he’s the only one with the access code. The lid pops open to reveal The Gilded Globe of Reaches Far, nestled between two fat strips of velvet.

“One,” Peter says, the word punctuated by a _clap_ as the lid closes. He pulls out a second box, longer than the first. Another code, and the blade glints under the afternoon sun. “Two. You’ll get the code and the boxes once you’ve given me the motherboard.”

Or the four of them could just pepper Peter with laser-holes and take their chances with a locksmith. Peter is all-too aware of the nervous goon, and the thumb that traces the blaster on their belt like a lucky rabbit’s foot.

Ellis seems happy to humor Peter for now, at least. He fiddles with his own line of code on the edge of his briefcase. There are three pips as the lock deactivates. Ellis turns the open case around for Peter to see.

Peter’s heart pounds like a war drum. It’s the motherboard. The real one. Peter knows it well enough from his research; his failed heist; his nightmares. It shines up at him from only a yard away, black and ticked with uncopyable machinery. 

Adena picks a burr off her shirt. “The four boxes, please. And the code.”

It’s the moment of truth—that last step towards the cliff-edge before free-fall. Peter shrugs the bag off his shoulder. He feels floaty as a balloon—like he’s passing his tether to Adena along with his bag.

Peter says, “419A7HVD8916—”

“Slow down,” the nervous goon complains. “For fuck’s sake, let me get my comms out—”

Peter waits as they fish out their comms, then swipe the screen a couple times.

“Right,” the goon says. “419…?”

“419A7HVD891675W4,” Peter says, slow enough for them to follow along. “The motherboard?”

No one responds, focused as they are on the goon's comms. They hand them to Adena, who kneels to rummage through Peter’s bag. She pulls out a box and enters the code onto its lockpad.

The box opens. Adena sets it down. She repeats the process with the other three boxes, slow and careful—until at last all four sit open around her on the ground.

Peter’s body could splinter apart with tension. He’s ready to leap away, but the nervous goon doesn’t raise their gun. No explosions go off.

Instead, Ellis does the unthinkable. He hands Peter his briefcase.

Peter has never been so aware of his own pulse. His fingers are numb as he takes the case. He steps back, looks down at the miracle between his hands and says,

“Why?”

“Why what?” Ellis asks.

“You have no reason to give this to me,” Peter says.

“You expected a fight?”

“Of _course_ I did.” Peter knows he shouldn’t go on, but he has to know: “There was a risk you wouldn’t bring the motherboard at all. It makes much more sense to kill me, or augment my debt and keep me on the roster.”

“Oh, we plan to keep you on the roster,” Ellis assures him. He shrugs. “But not for this. Too risky.”

A few dots connect, though the greater picture remains obfuscated. “I’m part of a team now,” Peter realizes slowly. “You know I can’t steal the motherboard alone, but with the help of a crew…”

“Better to get one last good sale out of Ol’ Bessie there than be robbed blind and get nothing,” Ellis confirms. “These four pieces meant you had the highest bid out of all our partners, so. Only makes sense.”

Peter struggles not to tighten his grip on the case. “You said you plan to keep me on the roster.”

“Of course,” Ellis says.

“You can’t seriously expect to hold my name over my head. My name has always been… _out t_ _here_. What matters is the connective tissue. I can run as long as I like, and use as many names as I need to shake that history.”

“I'm not sure I buy that, but hey.” Ellis pulls out his comms. “I don't need to. We both know blackmail works best when you've got family on the hook, right?”

There’s only sky and field all around, but Peter can still feel a wall at his back. Another presses down from above. Ellis holds out his comms for Peter to take. With no small amount of reluctance, Peter closes the lid on the motherboard. He wraps one hand around the handle of the briefcase, then accepts Ellis’ comms.

Photos. Security cam shots of himself and Juno dancing at Zolatovna’s auction. More of Jet on Neptune, caught on a street cam as he veers the Ruby around a skyscraper; of Juno and Vespa’s mad dash through a Plutonian market. And then—snapshots of life on the 'Blanche. Rita as she brews up some affront against god for dinner. Buddy and Vespa curled together on the lounge couch late one night, legs tangled up over the coffee table. Jet on one of his long ship walks. Juno on the observation deck…

The security and traffic footage Peter can disregard. It’s possible that Sorine was able to backtrack through their heists once Peter told her about the book, key, blade and map. But the photos on the ship—? If she’s managed to plant cameras on the Carte Blanche, then what else could be onboard? Peter’s mind whirls in circles, caught like a fly in a jar.

“You’re bluffing,” he decides at last. “If you had the means to eliminate the crew, you would have done so already.”

“Why?” Adena asks. “Your friends were a threat, sure. But now we’ve sold you the motherboard.” She toes at one of the boxes on the ground. “And they won't need these anymore. Hardly a reason for them to come after us, yeah? So…hardly a reason for _us_ to come after _them_.”

Peter can feel his mask start to slip on his face. Something trembles at the very core of him, white-hot with terror. 

“We care about your crew because _you_ care about your crew,” Ellis concludes. “Peter, come on. You know Sorine. At the end of the day, she only cares about whether or not she gets her payout.”

Blood roars between Peter's ears. The circle spins faster and faster: Jet. Vespa. Buddy. Rita. Jet. Juno. Jet, Vespa, Buddy, Rita, Jet, Juno, Jet Vespa Buddy Rita Jet Juno JetVespaBuddyRitaJet

“So long as you play by the rules, nobody gets hurt.”

Juno—

_“Don’t you ever get scared?” Juno asks one night. The nebula outside paints his face a sunset-pink. “Of the…of how small you are, and how little time you have? Of how you can try to leave your mark on the world—how…how you can name a constellation, but the stars are so far away and the light takes so long to reach you that the pattern already changed a hundred thousand years before you ever looked up?”_

Juno—

_“I brought you some uh, tea,” Juno says. “No sugar and a splash of milk, right?”_

_Peter doesn’t turn away from the wall, but he hears Juno pad towards his bed. There’s a tiny click of ceramic as he sets the mug on his bedside table. Peter’s cheeks are cold with dried tears. He hugs the blanket closer over his shoulders._

_Juno says, “You don’t have to do this alone. So please don’t try.”_

Juno—

_They cut a loose circle around the lounge, fingers threaded as they dance. The music picks up. Peter spins Juno out; Juno’s outstretched hand knocks a lampshade askew. Peter snickers, and Juno smacks him on the shoulder._

“If you want proof, we could always pick one off,” Ellis muses. At Peter’s silence, he takes a step closer. “But you won't need that, will you, Peter?”

_It’s the dead of night, and a duffel bag strap pulls at Peter’s right shoulder. Juno reaches out to him. “Peter, please—”_

“You won’t need us to hurt Juno Steel?”

_“I lo—”_

Peter doesn’t even know he’s moved, at first. There’s a spurt of blood, Ellis fumbles, and Peter registers the cold curve of a knife handle under his fingers.

Then everything goes to shit.

Nervous Goon whips out their blaster; Peter yanks Ellis between him and their weapon. The laser hits Ellis’ back. Peter trades his knife for the blaster on Ellis’ belt. His limp body slumps onto Peter, and another laser skims Peter’s arm.

_“You’ve got too much finger on the trigger." Juno moves Peter's hand. "Your muzzle’s going to drop when you shoot.”_

Peter ducks down. With Ellis’ body as a shield, he fires. One of the goons drops. Another shot hits Peter’s shoulder—he can’t help but expose his arm as he fires. He doesn’t register the pain yet. Laserfire pummels Ellis’ back. The shots his body doesn’t absorb are at least diluted by layers of fat and muscle.

Alena moves to get a better angle on Peter, past the bulk of Ellis’ body.

_“Focus. Stay on alignment. And don’t pop the gun back with the recoil.”_

Peter’s laser finds Alena’s chest, and her shot goes wide as she falls. Peter turns the blaster back towards the rest of the goons and lays down one last barrage. Blood flies as a shot grazes Peter’s bicep. There’s a sharp cry, then a thump.

The echoes peel off, and the scene goes very still. It can’t have been more than seven seconds since Peter first drew his knife.

Peter can hear the grass stalks rustle with the wind. A cloud blots out the sun for a moment. Then the sunlight creeps back onto the countryside one hill at a time.

Blood darkens the ground at Peter’s feet; most of Ellis’ wounds were cauterized upon entry, but not all. Alena lies face-down to his right.

Peter strains to hold up Ellis’ body. He peeks out from around his back.

The last two goons are sprawled out on the ground. From this angle Peter can make out a spatter of laser blasts on the nervous one’s chest. Blood mottles the gamma grass around their limp body. The other boasts a single blast mark.

Peter shucks Ellis’ body and stands. The blood stain grows on his shirt, but Peter still doesn’t feel any pain. He’s a step out of his body, on a separate plane from the world around him.

What the fuck has he done?

It still could have been a bluff—but the only way Peter could have guaranteed the crew’s safety was to play along with Ellis’ demands. Now there’s no longer a reason for Sorine to keep the crime family alive.

Except.

_“Hardly a reason for them to come after us, yeah? So…hardly a reason for us to come after them.”_

_“We care about your crew because you care about your crew. Peter, you know Sorine. At the end of the day, she only cares about whether or not she gets her payout.”_

Peter _does_ know Sorine. He knows she doesn't get her hands dirty without monetary cause. Vengeance has no fiscal value—there won't be a need for her to hurt the crew once Peter and his money are out of the picture.

There's still a chance for him to save his family. So: Peter Nureyev needs to do what he does best.

Peter doesn’t have a lot of tools at his disposal, surrounded by farmland and cows. Whenever he got stuck, Mag always told Peter to clear his mind; to count his resources. So he looks around and finds:

The map, the blade, the key and the book. The motherboard. A fancy car parked down the road—the goons’ transport. The goons’ clothes, weapons, and comms. A farmhouse and a barn…

And, much to Peter’s shock, a live goon. The lanky one, with the single blast mark. The rocks crinkle as he stirs. Then he groans. 

Peter regathers his grip around his blaster. He crosses the scant few yards between himself and the goon.

The goon looks up at Peter, the panic stark on his face. He’s on his back, one hand clutched over the wound on his chest. His blaster lies a few feet away, but he doesn’t try to close the gap; he must know he wouldn’t get that far with Peter’s blaster trained on his head.

“Name?” Peter demands.

The goon takes a couple seconds to decide whether or not he should answer. Then he croaks out, “Ronny.”

“Okay, Ronny,” Peter says. “Does Sorine have a way to harm my crew?”

“I don’t know,” Ronny says, then more fervently when Peter cocks the gun: “I don’t know! I swear to god—all they told me was who you were, and that they needed an extra guy on hand to make sure you didn’t go off the rails…”

“Well, I’m afraid that ship has sailed.” Blood has started to bead through the fabric of Peter’s torn shirt sleeve; droplets hit the ground one by one. “Ronny.”

“Uh. Yeah?”

“You’re going to take out your comms and call Sorine Day. You’re going to tell her there was a shootout, and a stray laser set the barn on fire…and that you shot me right between the eyes.” He lowers the blaster. “If you’re convincing enough, I’ll let you live.”

Ronny’s fingers convulse around his wound. He pants for a second, then says, “Why should I believe you?”

“Because you’ve been briefed,” Peter says. “You know my legacy. You know how your boss has kept me under her thumb for the past seven years. You know I _care_ about people, much to my own detriment.” He folds away the memory of Juno’s laugh; the give of his coat under his hands. “I don’t kill unless I have to.”

Ronny seems to take a moment to process that. His gaze slides from Peter’s face to his blaster—to the blood that glues his shirt to the skin of his arm.

A ring glints on Ronny’s left hand. Across the way, the barn door creaks with the wind.

Then Ronny reaches for his comms.

“On speaker,” Peter orders him. Ronny nods, the grass mussing his hair. He dials.

Sorine picks up on the second ring. “Ronny? What’s going on?”

“There was…” Ronny struggles for words. “Peter saw the pictures of the crew and flipped. Grabbed Ellis’ blaster. There—a stray shot caught the barn on fire—”

Sorine curses. “Is he dead?”

“Who?”

“ _Peter Nureyev,_ Ronny! Is he— _”_

“He’s dead,” Ronny confirms shakily. “I shot him right between the eyes, but—I couldn't—Alena and…Alena and Ellis are gone, and Marcy.”

Sorine shouts to someone on her end of the line, then says, “Did you at least get the book and the map and the—”

“Yeah. Yeah, we—”

“Good. Can you drive?”

“I don’t kn—I mean, yeah, probably.”

“So get the hell out of there before a drone spots the smoke. You can meet us back at base.”

“But—”

Sorine hangs up.

Ronny stares at his comms, unsure how to react. He starts to close them, and Peter shoots him right between the eyes.

Peter likes to think he was fast enough that the last thing Ronny saw was his comms screen, not the barrel of Peter’s blaster. That there wasn’t time for him to realize that Peter had lied, and he was about to die.

But Peter can’t know that, so he tucks away the part of himself that feels like a planetary collapse. He needs Ronny's body for this plan to work. He grabs his ankle and tugs.

It takes a while for Peter to drag Ronny to the barn one-handed. He sets Ronny down at the entrance and leaves to grab another goon. It would look suspicious for “Peter’s” body to be stranded so far away from the others.

The sun beats down on Peter as he surveys his other kills. He can’t move Ellis or the second goon; their wounds are too bloody. If Peter tried to drag them, they’d leave traces on the grass. Luckily, Alena went down with a single, cauterized shot to the heart. Peter takes her arm and prays for empty roads as he hauls her towards the barn.

By the time Alena and Ronny are arranged at the center of the barn, Peter's legs have started to wobble. He takes Ronny’s blaster, points the muzzle at the hay bale and empties the laser cartridge. The sparks catch a few strands of hay.

It will take twenty-five minutes of flame to render Ronny unrecognizable—at least enough to be mistaken for Peter. But Peter’s confident a barn like this will burn for upwards of an hour. By the time the fire department reaches the scene, the whole field could be ablaze.

As the hay spits and crackles, Peter slips the blue coat off Ronny’s back. He’d rather match Ronny’s description as much as possible on the trip back to town—and anyway, Peter's clothes will be stained beyond repair. He can hardly hitch a ride with a shirt caked in blood.

The coat fits well enough. Peter knows he shouldn’t, but he takes a moment to stand over Ronny’s dead body. There’s a tiny scar on his chin, and a spatter of freckles on his cheeks. He looks around thirty.

Peter kneels to place his glasses on Ronny’s face, unsure whether the police will go so far as to report wire frames amidst his remains. Peter can see well enough without them. Next he swaps Ronny’s comms with his own.

The fire has started to leap up the hay. The smell of dust and heat and blood clogs Peter’s nose. An old Brahman prayer falls out of his mouth:

“Lau roko oebat; eaut en ollerdet, eatka.”

_May sleep bring release; the next life, freedom._

Then Peter stands. He leaves the barn and the two blasters behind. A couple of pigeons follow him out, spooked by the smoke and the heat.

It would make sense for Ronny to grab both the motherboard and Peter’s payment on his way out, so Peter stops to gather his bag and the briefcase. He leaves his knife amidst the weeds, but rummages the keys out of Ellis’ pocket. Then he makes a break for the car.

The pain starts to creep up on Peter when he opens the trunk, but he can’t drive away until he’s found a bandage—there’s no way he can disguise his own blood on Soline’s upholstery. The trunk appears to be empty, but Peter knows there will be a first aid kit somewhere in the vehicle. Even an amateur wouldn’t be stupid enough to show up to a high-stakes handoff like this one without medical supplies on hand. Peter trunks the duffel bag and the briefcase and goes to search the front of the car.

The glove compartment and the armrest drawer are empty. Rather, Peter finds the kit on the floor of the backseat. Careful not to drip on the seats, Peter eases the kit out of the car and onto the dirt road. He can still smell the smoke from down the road—he hopes he can leave before he smells burnt skin.

It’s a good kit, Peter finds; a whole backpack full of gauze sponges, adhesive tape rolls, alcohol wipes, mylar blankets, pain relievers, scalpels, calamine lotion…Peter wonders whether he should feel flattered by Soline’s preparedness. He selects the bandage scissors and snips away at his shirt. The real pain starts as he peels the cloth strips from his arm. The shirt pulls at his wounds as he works to reveal the damage.

It’s…bad, but not unsalvageable. The shoulder blast was cauterized upon entry. The fact that Peter has been able to move the arm at all says the laser didn’t shred his muscles beyond repair. The burn around the entry point will be third-degree, however, his various grazes second-degree at best. Peter can see the charred color of his skin, red and black even before the blood, and blisters all along his arm. He can’t know whether the first blast will have severed a nerve somewhere, or whether he’ll regain full control over his arm once he’s healed…

Fuck. Peter doesn’t have the time to be remotely careful about this. He dry-swallows three of the most powerful painkillers he can find, then screams when he splashes on the antiseptic. It’s like the medical supplies have given his body permission to catch fire: In that moment Peter burns hotter than the barn. He swears he would tear off his arm to get the pain to stop. Instead he wipes away the blood with hands that slip and shake.

The painkillers have started to take the edge off by the time Peter reaches for a bandage roll; he manages not to pass out long enough to wrap up his wounds. Then Peter bags his wipes and his bloody shirt, replaces the med kit, and goes to start the car. He can clean and dress his wounds the right way when he’s not parked a few yards from a quadruple murder.

The car chimes at Peter as he waves the key over the ignition scanner. It rumbles happily under his feet, perfectly level as the hover-engine nudges the wheels off the ground.

The car rises with the smoke from the barn, and “Ronny” flees the scene.

_“You won’t need us to hurt Juno Steel?”_

Peter must react to the memory somehow, because Delilah looks over and asks,  “You all right over there?”

Peter plasters a smile on his face and buries his accent: “Fine. Just tired.”

“Mmkay. Mind if I turn up the radio?”

“Please.”

Delilah cranks the dial, and a hip hop ballad floods the front seat. They drum their forefingers to the beat as they steer. It's a small compartment, with wrappers on the floor and upholstery that smells of way station coffee. Peter stares at the bobblehead cow stuck to the dashboard and keeps his wounded arm very, very still. 

Peter wonders how long Sorine will take to find the goons' car, so far from the city cameras. He’d only driven it long enough to put some distance between himself and the crime scene; then he’d parked, wiped down his fingerprints, and started to walk. After about a mile he’d raised his hand. Delilah had come along some twenty minutes later with their “dry van” trailer.

It’s a bit of a tight squeeze up front between Peter, Delilah, the medical kit, and Peter’s duffel bag. Delilah doesn’t seem to mind. They belt along to a song on the radio. Past the shock and the pain meds, Peter feels a twinge of distress: he doesn't understand the chorus. He’s lost some of his Brahmese.

A string of words repeat over and over. Unable to stop himself, Peter uses Solar to ask, “What does the chorus mean?”

Delilah laughs. They say, loud enough to be heard over the music, “It means, ‘It’s warm out! Let’s dance around and fuck outside!’”

Despite the burns on his arm and the bodies down the road, that comment punches a snort out of him. “No it doesn’t!”

“It does, it does!” Delilah says, and waggles their thumb and forefinger back and forth across their throat—the “promise” gesture. “Ellit renouch terrekcha hunau! The weather is hot! Lotaet ent drechete rhysechet ye veneek vutau; let us both go and dance all around, and have—”

“Yes, yes, all right!” Peter says. “I believe you.”

Placated, Delilah picks up where they left off. There’s a tiny pat on the dirt-cloudy windshield, then another. Peter looks on as clusters of raindrops gather on the glass. He reflects on his situation:

Sorine won’t expect Ronny back at base for another seven hours. That gives Peter plenty of time to find a hideout. He also knows he can count on the fact that Ronny won’t have any dental records on file—Sorine would have paid someone to wipe them and his prints from the system. Forensic dentistry won't ID the body. 

No; what concerns Peter the most is Ronny’s character.

It would be easy for Sorine to look at the scene Peter created—the phone call; the four dead bodies, one tall and lanky with a laser-hole to the skull; the absence of Ronny, the car, and the five astronomically expensive artifacts—and decide Ronny has killed Peter and run off with the loot. But had Ronny been the sort of person to abandon ship like that? Had he been cold enough to try, and smart enough to succeed—to abandon the car and evade Sorine's cameras? Or would Sorine know at once that something was off?

If Peter has bet his chips on the wrong man, and Sorine catches on…

_“If you want proof, we could always pick one off. But you won’t need that, will you Peter?”_

Sorine wouldn’t act without reason, no. But she would be more than happy to punish an employee to ensure they made their future payments.

The next song starts. Delilah makes a disgusted noise.

“Bet you a hundred creds they’re paid to play this song every hour,” they tell him, and change the station.

They land on an Earth classics channel; Delilah’s hand hovers over the channel knob, undecided. At last they turn on the windshield wipers and lean back. The drum of the rain underscores a pop song about circles. 

They're close to town now, and Sorine's cameras. Peter couldn’t have asked for a better way to hitchhike. Traffic cams are angled up to capture the driver and plates of your average vehicle—not a dry van like Delilah’s, with a four foot-high driver’s seat. When Sorine has her posse comb through the traffic footage for this part of Brahma, the most she’ll see of Peter will be the flash of a blue sleeve.

Still. Peter’s on edge. As they enter town, Peter dares to take another pain pill. If he takes too many be knows he won’t be able to focus—but he can hardly focus anyhow with an arm full of hot coals.

Once a drone hums by outside, and Peter ducks down to rustle through the duffel bag at his feet. He checks Ronny’s comms like a nervous tick, to ensure he’d disabled Sorine’s bugs and tracker software.

If Delilah notices he’s scared, that’s probably for the best. “Tall and nervous with a blue coat” will sound like Ronny as much as Peter. With Delilah so preoccupied with the road, Peter has to hope they won’t remember much of his face.

The outskirt town thickens, with less boarded up houses and more fast food joints, shops and hotels. It’s been too long for Peter to place most of the scenery, but every few blocks or so he’ll spot a crop of red shingles or a marbled storefront and his heart will ache with a kind of bitter nostalgia. Peter remembers how he would take a bus out of the city for easy scraps; the street gangs were thinner out here, the shop owners too poor to afford laser-locked dumpsters.

Peter wonders whether he could still find that old alcove at the end of Raal’s alley—whether he’d find another child asleep there, their few belongings swaddled in garbage bags and tied to their waist.

The truck hits an air pocket, and Peter returns to the present day. He’s reminded that the coat on his shoulders belongs to a dead man; that the duffel bag at his feet holds about a billion creds-worth of stolen goods; that his pursuer has access to all the security and traffic cameras on the planet; that his only friends’ lives are on the line. 

“Where did you say you were going?” Delilah asks over the rain. “A restaurant somewhere?”

“The Black Drum,” Peter says. It’s a residential coffee shop on the poorer side of town; the camera count should be manageable. “If it’s not too out of your way, of course.”

Delilah scoffs at him. “Oh, please. I can afford to take a little detour.” They flip on their turn signal; Peter looks down as they pass another traffic light. “Should only be a few blocks extra, anyway.”

They don’t ask Peter why he would want to hitchhike from a cottage country house to an old cafe at 3pm on a Tuesday—much less why he’d need to bring along a full duffel bag and backpack combo. They must assume he’s some kind of dealer. Peter wonders how much the culture has changed since he left Brahma, that someone like Delilah can afford not to care.

Street lights scroll by from below, on and on as they approach The Black Drum. Delilah starts to descend. It’s only a few seconds before the tires graze the road; trucks as heavy as Delilah’s are confined to the ground and first level lanes.

Delilah pulls over to the side of the road. They don’t bother to cut the engine. Peter wishes he could pay them for their trouble, but he knows he'll need to make another big deposit soon. It's best not to push his luck—at least no more than he has to.

So Peter puts as much heart behind the words as he knows how: “Thank you.”

Delilah shoos her hands at him. “Just happy to have some company. You take care now, all right?”

“I’ll do my best."

Peter grabs the door handle. He worms his way out of the truck with both bags slung over his good arm. His feet meet solid ground; from this angle he can see the very top of Delilah’s head and fingers as they wave to him. Then they pull away.

The rumble of Delilah’s truck fades and fades, until there’s only the patter of water on asphalt and the hum of The Black Drum’s neon sign. Raindrops tickle Peter’s skin as he pulls the zippers taut on each layer of the med kit bag. He decides he’ll find Delilah and tip them generously once he has the means. For now, he heads for the alleyway behind the cafe.

Peter walks for a long time—long enough for the rain to stop. He keeps to the alleys and the shadows thereof. It’s a damp and smelly venture all around, and Peter feels very much like a sewer rat lost amongst old haunts. Once he stops to give his shoulder a break—too bags are a heavy burden to bear for one arm—and take another pain pill. Several times he nearly trips over his own feet. Peter’s not sure whether to blame his clumsiness on the shock, the medication, or his lack of glasses. He settles for a combination of all three.

The sky has started to darken by the time Peter reaches his end goal: the back end of a rundown motel. It’s perfect: both the owners and the residents will be starved for cash. Peter hovers at the edge of the lot, surrounded by cigarette butts and food wrappers, and waits for someone to use the back entrance. Peter's chances will be better from the motel hallway. He'd rather he be mistaken for a guest from down the hall—at least at first. Out here, people will be more on their guard.

It takes longer than Peter would have hoped, but at last a woman pops out to fetch a bag from her car. Peter lets her use her keycard and pass back through the door. Then he runs. The old-fashioned hydraulic door-closer bides Peter the time he needs to cross the lot and catch the handle. 

Peter counts to twenty—long enough for the woman to reach her room or the stairs. Then he enters the hall.

There’s no one there, and no cameras. Peter sags. He drops his cargo onto the carpet.

Peter doesn’t want to be seen with Ronny’s coat on anymore—but he still doesn’t have a shirt on underneath. He logs out of Ronny’s account on his comms and pulls up his own. 

Peter lets a few people pass. They look too put-together. Then an older man teeters along with a droopy hat and an arm full of bags. He must have come straight from the front desk. 

“Just a moment,” Peter calls, and crosses to the man. He brandishes the six thousand creds he'd loaded onto his comms. “I need a place to stay. I’ll pay you three thousand creds to go to the front desk and extend your stay by two weeks, then another three thousand for you to return to this spot with the key card.”

The man rakes Peter up and down with a glare that could put x-rays to shame. The universe stands still.

“A’right,” the man allows, after what feels like a century. “My code’s 8Z28WB9.”

It’s awkward to type with one hand, but Peter manages. There’s a short ping. “Sent.”

“Hhm.” The man holds his comms up to his face, close enough to almost brush his nose. His account must have processed Peter’s payment, because his brows unfurrow. “‘Kay. You stand there, and I’ll be right back.”

“Will do,” Peter says.

The man turns. The clip-clop of sandals announces his retreat back to the lobby.

If the man rats Peter out to the front desk, he won’t get his last three thousand creds—and to report Peter to the police after the fact, he’d also have to report himself. Still, Peter worries. He feels naked—weaponless and small. The world spins when he turns his head too fast. He’s not even sure he could run, should the need arise.

Peter is snapped out of his stupor by the returning clap of sandals. The man hobbles over, bags still slung over one arm; he holds the other out to Peter, a keycard trapped between his middle and forefinger.

“Two weeks,” the man says. Peter takes the card. The man sets down his bags so he can show Peter his comms; Peter notes the sale onscreen. “Another three thousand creds, please.”

Peter taps at his comms. As he works he says, “If you go to the police, they’re search your account and find these deposits—”

“Keep the speech,” the man gripes. “I wasn’t born yesterday, boy. Have some respect for your elders.”

Peter’s not sure how to react to that. “Oh,” he lands on. “Of course. Forgive me, sir.”

The old man harrumphs. He waits for his account to process Peter’s second payment, then gathers up his bags. As he heads for the back door, he says, “Room 18.”

“Thank you,” Peter says dumbly. He collects his own bags.

Peter barely registers his awkward slump up the stairs. Whatever emergency fuel reserve has gotten his through the day up 'til this point has officially dried up. Peter’s so far gone he almost forgets to check the stairwell and the upstairs hall for cameras. He can’t even feel his wounded arm anymore. His mind swims like someone crammed a whole ocean between his ears.

Peter manages to penetrate the haze long enough to locate room 18. He waves the keycard over the scanner; when the door opens, he all-but falls over the threshold. Both his bags slip from his shoulder. Peter doesn’t care. He kicks the door closed behind him and stumbles towards the center of the room.

Peter becomes aware of the shape of a bed, the bumpy texture of a hotel coverlet, and then—

He’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments give me FUEL! ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ
> 
> Chapter two is technically written...Just gotta' edit it!
> 
> The "circles" song from Delilah's truck is "Never Ending Circles" by Chvrches. I made a track for "'Never Ending Circles' by Chvrches except you’re Peter Nureyev and you're hitchhiking in an old truck during a rainstorm after stealing/fleeing from your crime family and the love of your life," which you can listen to [here](https://jitterbug-juno.tumblr.com/post/622647978095706112/never-ending-circles-by-chvrches-except-youre) lol.


	2. Chapter 2

Strong hands shove Peter down onto a leather chair. He falls back against the cushions and stays there. His guards grumble and straighten their uniforms. They leave.

Peter reels his focus back from the marble floor, all the way up to the chair across from him. Sorine Day sits regally, back rigid as a pole with one foot tucked over the other. She’s done up like a cotinga, with dark lipstick, a purple scarf and a long, blue shirt that puffs up around the sleeves. As Peter looks at her, she tilts her head.

“Peter Nureyev,” she greets. “I suppose I should be honored. None of us would be where we are today without your…contributions.”

Peter lolls his head to one side, still slumped against the back of his chair. He surveys the atrium—the hexagonal pattern of the windows overhead, and the shadows they cast across the endless greenery. It’s bright enough to hurt, after the darkness of his cell.

“That’s not my name,” Peter says at last. The words are so well-trodden by now that they might as well be gibberish.

Sorine certainly treats them as such: “Oh, don’t start. That might’ve worked on any other planet, but not here.” She makes a vague gesture. “You’re a Brahman _legend_ , Peter. A couple of contacts and some hair dye couldn’t fool me.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter tells her, “but I honestly don’t know who you’re talking about.”

It must be a step too far, because something dangerous settles over Sorine’s face. She purses her lips until they form a thin line. She takes a sip of water from the glass on the coffee table between them, then reaches for her comms.

“When the war ended,” Sorine says brusquely, “do you know what our side was given for our trouble?”

Peter knows the answer, but he can’t remember whether his alias would. He says, “No.”

“Yes you do, but I’ll tell you anyway. Tohler’s crew got the defense sector—New Kinshasa’s arsenal. The Reaches got the land rights—Brahma’s natural resources. And we—?” She scoffs—takes another swig of water. “We got the _archive_. The security and _traffic cam_ footage.”

“Well, that’s hardly fair,” Peter says, mind on the open door behind Sorine’s chair. Peter still has a broken ankle, but Sorine’s goons gave him a splint last night. He wonders how far he’d get before the guards shot him full of holes…

“It wasn’t,” Sorine agrees. Peter gets the sense she’s caught onto his train of thought and doesn’t care. “And yet! Do you know what I did?”

“What did you do?”

“I hiked up my skirts and—” Sorine kicks her feet back against her chair. “Eight years, Peter. I worked my ass off for nearly a _decade_ to organize—no, _weaponize_ —that security system. The New Kinshasans might have thought they’d covered their tracks, but their secrets were all there. In coffee shop small talk. In water cooler gossip. We didn’t have comms numbers; we didn’t have the physical reports; but we had the footage of employees’ fingers as they typed, and the sounds of their keypads. Millions of data points scattered across fifty years, and my colleagues and I collaged them back together—one scrap at a time, until the whole picture became clear.” She leans forward. “It wounds me, Peter, after all that work. That you would look at my history—the empire I’ve built for myself out of someone else’s garbage—and expect me not to be able to drudge up one of the most historic pieces of footage on file…”

Sorine taps the play button on her comms:

_“Every time you fire a laser from this city. Know that I come that much closer to destroying it. Know that I can do so whenever I please. Know that I will always be among you. That I could be anywhere—anyone, for I have no name; no past; no identity, and I never will again. It’s plain and—”_

There's a sharp beep as the tape stops.

“Why do you thieves always forget about _microphones_ ,” Sorine bemoans. “There were more than enough attached to the cameras down the hall, and _you_ were more than loud enough to be heard from a room away…” She stops long enough to set her comms back on the table, then folds her hands over her lap. “Your face may have changed from your old census database photo, Peter, but your voice is still the same.”

Peter can’t seem to get his lungs to work. He stares at Sorine, and Sorine stares back, and she _sees_ him like no one has seen him for twenty years. In that moment, Peter is a teenager again.

“There you are,” Sorine says, almost gently. “Hello, Peter.”

“What do you want?” Peter grinds out. He folds away the sense-memory of Mag’s blood on his fingers. “You haven’t killed me yet, so there must be something.”

“Hmm! Well.” Sorine releases her knees; she claps her hands onto the arms of her chair. “That’s just the thing. _You_ want something from _me_ , and _I_ want to sell it to you.”

Peter finds the gall to scoff. “Sorine, if I had the creds to simply _buy_ the motherboard, why in the galaxy would I have risked my life on a heist as dangerous as this one?”

Sorine makes her own exasperated noise. “In what world are you living in where you have to have _money_ to buy something? Honestly, Peter. I don’t need the creds right this second. I just need your word.”

“My…word?”

“Mhmm. Consider it a loan. On this day, at this moment, I’ve _loaned_ you the money to buy the motherboard. Now you just have to promise to pay me back.”

A bird flits between the fronds of a palm tree. “How much?”

“One billion creds.”

Any air Peter might have recovered gets punched right out of his windpipe. “One _billion_ —that must be three times greater than your highest bid!”

“It’s my final offer,” Sorine says. At Peter’s baffled silence, she adds, “Oh, don’t give me that look. You can take your time. Years. A decade, even. But you’re smart, Peter. If you could get as far as you did here at this facility, with a thousand cameras pointed at you, then I know you’ll be able to steal whatever you need to steal to make that price tag. A twenty-million statue here…a hundred-million car there…” She flips her hand back and forth, then stills. “Or would you rather I…sold the motherboard to someone else?”

Peter glowers. He hoists himself further upright, though his bruised body protests.

“Fine,” he snaps. “Give me the motherboard, and we can arrange my first payment.”

“Oh no; that’s not how this works. The motherboard will stay here with me.”

Peter barks out an awful laugh. It sounds hateful—not like him at all. Or maybe Peter has always sounded that way, and he’d forgotten under the endless layers of accents and satin and mascara. “Do you in fact know what it means to _buy_ something, Sorine?”

“Enough to know that _buying_ and _owning_ are two very different things,” Sorine says, settling back against her chair. “It all comes down to the loan. You can _buy_ a house, but you won’t _own_ that house until you’ve paid back the lender. You can _buy_ a car or a plane or a spaceship on finance, but you won’t be able to modify a single one without the lender’s permission.” She shrugs. “You can buy plenty of things and not have control over them, Peter—but while you have _bought_ those things, no one else can _use_ them. Not without your consent.”

She stops. Soft, warm air circles the room, puffed out by an unseen fan. Sorine rearranges the tassels on her scarf and resumes: “The motherboard will be off the market, Peter. You will _have bought it_. But that does not mean you will _own_ it. It will stay here, safe and tucked away with a Peter Nureyev _sold_ sticker on top, until you’ve acquired your one billion creds. _Then_ you can do what you like with it.” A beat. “How does that sound?”

“Like my only choice,” Peter says honestly.

Sorine smiles. “Oh, don’t be like that. You always have a choice. But I know you’ll make the right one.”

It’s the pain that wakes Peter up. He surfaces from a vague dream about the crew and clutches at his arm. His blood might as well be boiling oil. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Peter rolls out of bed and stumbles for the first aid kit. It and his duffel bag are still slumped by the door. He drops to his knees and rips open the kit; he finds the pain pills and downs four. Then he scrounges around for antibiotic ointment. That takes longer to find. It’s gotten dark since Peter passed out, and the shadows are thick at the bottom of the backpack. 

In time Peter assembles the tools he’ll need: ointment, cotton swabs, bandages, and gauze. He moves his horde to the bathroom. He thrusts his bandaged arm under the faucet and lets the water run.

It’s been a long time since Peter last had to treat a burn, and he’s never dealt with damage this severe. He doesn’t know whether the water should be cold or not. At the moment he doesn't care. He lets the water slosh over his bandages and waits for the pills to work their magic. With a fantom house fire under his arm, every second feels like an eternity. Peter grits his teeth and wills away the tears on his face.

A memory penetrates the haze of pain, unbidden: Juno at Peter’s med bay bedside, their hands locked as Vespa set Peter’s broken leg. Peter had kept his mouth shut. He’d promised himself the day he left the Martian tomb that Juno would never hear him scream again. Instead he'd shaken apart on his cot, and clutched Juno’s hand hard enough to bruise.

Juno had only carded his free hand through Peter’s hair, over and over.

“I’ve got you,” Juno had told him. “Shhhhh. It’s almost over. Just look at me, okay? I’ve got you…”

Peter takes a shaky breath. He lets the words wash over him like a manta, equal parts comfort and heartbreak: _It’s almost over. I’ve got you. It’s almost over. I’ve got you…_

The meds are strong, and before long numbness starts to trickle down Peter’s arm. Peter wilts with relief. He finds a set of wrapped plastic cups on the counter, pulls open a package and takes a gulp of tap water—then another. He can’t remember the last time he ate or drank.

Peter struggles to order his thoughts. He’ll clean his wounds before he worries about food.

Once the meds have sufficiently fuzzed out the pain, Peter peels off Ronny’s coat. He takes his arm out from under the faucet and unwinds his sodden bandages.

The meds put a gulf between Peter and his pain. He can still feel the sting as he rinses his arm and shoulder with one last round of tap water, but only as a pale echo. It hurts more when he applies the soap.

The knobs squeak as Peter shuts off the faucet. He sits down on the edge of the tub. He unscrews the lid on the antibiotic ointment, pinches a cotton wad between his fingers, and sets to work.

It’s…not a pleasant task. Peter’s gut clenches whenever he has to linger too long on his laser blast wound. The grazes along his arm will scar, but he can always cover them with concealer. He’ll need real surgery to hide the leathery black crater on his shoulder. Peter hasn’t been able to test his range of motion yet—there could be permanent damage to his muscles as well…

But no. He’s fine. Peter pretends the charred, broken skin under the cotton swabs belongs to a stranger. He dabs on one last blot of ointment; plastic rustles as he unwraps a few adhesive bandages. He covers the burns to the best of his ability, then adds a layer of gauze.

Perfect. Peter tilts his arm and flexes his fingers. Barely any pain now, thanks to the pills. He’s also more than a little dizzy. Peter pries himself from the side of the tub and gathers his things, slow and steady. There are still red streaks on his chest and stomach from where the lasers passed through Renard’s back, but they're mild enough to heal on their own.

Peter zips up his bag. Outside, a neighbor clomps down the stairs.

It occurs to Peter as he enters the main room that he never checked the space for cameras. Horror grabs him by the neck, and Peter conducts a hasty sweep of his motel room—but the walls are bare but for a few cheap paintings.

Thank god. What a travesty that would have been, for Peter to have gone so out of his way to stay off the grid—only to fall asleep directly under a camera for…

How long?

Peter checks the clock on the bedside table. 5:07am. He flashes back to the numbers on Delilah’s dashboard—they’d dropped him off at the Black Drum at around 3:30pm. It would have taken Peter at least an hour to get to the motel, and then maybe half an hour to get to his room…

Peter slept for nearly fourteen hours. Good lord. He hasn’t slept that long since—well. Since he broke his leg.

It can’t be helped. Peter grabs Ronny’s comms, pulls the coverlet off the bed and crawls onto the blankets. They’re softer than he would have expected from such a dingy room. Peter lays down and relishes the small comfort of warm cotton at his back. He lets his hands fall about his sides and looks up.

The ceiling tiles are full of tiny holes—for sound absorption, Peter knows. Mag had taught him to always be aware of the materials around him. Carpet, cork, and foam absorbed the most sound, while Peter was to be the most cautious around wood, marble, and metal…

How to move with the wood grain; how to slide heel to toe on metal…how to merge with his backdrop. Peter’s brain is one endless guidebook on how best not to exist.

Peter curls the fingers of his good hand around the edge of the blanket. He coughs. The traffic has started to pick up outside. Pale blue light peeks out between the plastic blinds.

There’s another memory skating on the edge of Peter’s mind, of another hotel room like this one—with old white walls and acoustical ceiling tiles. Dawn had found Peter alone that day, too. He’dstared up at those tile holes for so long they’d started to look like stars. He'd mapped out patterns between them, and called them constellations.

In the now, Peter clears his throat.

“Ellit renouch terrekcha hunau,” he tests out. “Lotaet ent drechete rhysechet…”

An air conditioner on the wall stirs the plastic blinds. Two of them clack together.

Peter decides he likes the shape of the words on his tongue. He dares to sing them: “Ellit renouch terrekcha hunau. Lotaet ent drechete rhysechet ye veneek vutau…”

The sound lingers for a second after he’s done. Peter focuses hard on that echo. He feels his chest rise and fall—rise and fall—and the ache of his arm.

Then Peter pats around for Ronny’s comms.

Peter orders enough food to last him two weeks—mostly protein bars, canned goods and crackers. He doesn’t want to have to risk more than one drone delivery, so he also adds some clothes, plastic silverware, toothpaste, a toothbrush, and a knife to his cart. He’s sure whoever rings up his order at the warehouse has seen stranger orders—likely within the past week.

A drone delivers Peter’s bags to the back of the motel at 11am. Peter haunts the doorway long enough for the drone to fly away. Then he ducks outside, scoops up his loot and thunders upstairs. He nearly spills a dozen cans onto the stairwell, as he only has one hand at his disposal. On his way back through the door to his room he slaps on the “do not disturb” sign over the knob. 

The rest of the day passes without fanfare. There’s a dusty monitor across from Peter’s bed. When he gets fed up with his research, he turns it to a random stream and heats up a cup of bean soup.

It looks like there’s no way out, Peter muses over his meal. There are too many cameras at the port stations for him to get past security, let alone sneak onto a ship. Hell, there are too many cameras on the _streets_ for him to risk another car ride. His best shot would be to pay someone with a private rocket to smuggle him off-planet, but he doesn’t have that kind of network on Brahma. He doesn’t know who he can trust—who Sorine has dirt on. The only people who seem to scare Sorine are the counselors from Brahma’s military sector, but the government wouldn’t be too keen to help some scrappy crook…and from the research he’s done, Peter can’t be sure whether his real name would help or hurt his case.

In two words: It’s complicated.

Peter downs the last of his soup. He has two weeks. He’ll find a way.

There’s an awful soap opera on the monitor now—something about werewolves and asteroids. It reminds Peter of Rita, so he doesn’t change the channel. He cleans his dish and goes back to his research. There has to be a port _somewhere_ that’s off the grid…

He wakes to the blip of a news alert.

Peter has had the same three alert terms set up on his comms for the past fifteen years. He’d transferred them to Ronny’s comms that first day at the motel:

_Guardian Angel System_

_Angel of Brahma_

_Peter Nureyev_

Peter has long since gotten used to the pings from conspiracy forums, but he hasn’t seen one from an official news network page for at least a decade now. Today there are five.

Peter opens the first news alert message—

BURN VICTIM ID-ED AS PETER NUREYEV

—and the bed falls out from under him. Peter’s arm throbs with pain, but he doesn’t reach for the pill bottle. He lies there, still as a pinned butterfly, and reads a coroner’s report for “The Angel of Brahma.”

He scrolls through the other alerts. Some of the news sites from Peter’s ping only circulate within the solar ring. The police wouldn’t have had the means to ID the body as Peter’s.

Sorine must have arranged this.

Peter doesn’t have to ask himself why. Sorine doesn’t trust that Peter is dead. She can’t spy on him, but she can spy on his friends; she’s broadcasted his supposed death to the galaxy to test their reaction.

Well, fine. Peter wasn’t going to contact the crew anyway. He’s not about to put them at risk.

It takes a long time for Peter to force his legs over the edge of the bed. He goes to pick out some food. He doesn’t think about how or when his friends will find the article. He doesn’t think about whether they’ll be at breakfast, or gathered around the lounge monitor, or about to get ready for bed. He doesn’t think about the looks on their faces. He doesn’t think about Juno—

Peter’s fingers slip on a package of protein bars. They spill onto the floor with a great _clshhh_ of aluminum foil.

For a while Peter can’t seem to remember how to bend his knees. He stares at the bars on the floor, empty as a corn husk doll. Then he stoops, and plucks them up off the ground one at a time.

Peter turns on the monitor. He tears at his protein bar like a dog with a rawhide stick. He eats a second bar for good measure, and goes to take his pills and redress his arm.

What he finds under the gauze doesn’t bode well.

Despite Peter’s best efforts, his skin has swollen up. When he lifts the bandage over his blaster wound, he finds a bad smell and a yellow stain. Peter knows the pills are the only reason he doesn’t want to claw his own skin off with pain.

Peter curses. He picks the last traces of gauze and bandage off his arm and goes to re-clean his wounds.

It’s fine. He’ll order some antibiotics. He can risk one more drone delivery.

Soup. Crackers. Protein bars. Pills.

Peter could use the blade to scramble the security feeds at the spaceport long enough to board a ship—but Peter can’t be sure Ronny would know how to activate the blade. Sorine is already suspicious enough to have commissioned a coroner's report; a system-wide shutdown will only exacerbate problems.

Beans. Protein bars. Pills. Bandage patches.

There’s a monastery to the West of Kekeat, with a ban on all outside tech. Except—where would Peter find the transport? Who could he trust to drive him over a thousand miles to the smack center of the Western highlands? He’d steal a car—but how many street cams would Peter pass on the 22-hour drive? The owner would report the stolen car and he’d be arrested before he ever crossed the border.

Crackers. Pills. Canned corn. Soup. Peter blames the headaches and fatigue on the meds.

Maybe Peter could stay here for a couple months. Hop between motel guests; bribe them out of their rooms. He has the money, but what about the luck? What are the chances that one of Peter’s bribed guests won’t sell him out, or that he won’t be found out and reported by the motel staff?

Canned fruit. Protein bars. Yellow bandages. Pills. Peter shakes away the brain fog.

He could use the alleyways and pick a house. Kill the owner and—no. No, he won’t do that. The owner’s neighbors, friends and relatives would find him out anyway.

Peter wakes on the fifth day at the motel and can’t seem to get out of bed. His limbs are too heavy, his mind too thick with sleep. He’s lucky that he put his pills on the bedside table before he went to sleep last night. He takes them, turns over, and goes back to sleep.

Pills. Protein bars. Pills.

At 2am, Peter manages to find his way out of bed and over to his raggedy motel table. He nibbles at some crackers. He’s not hungry, but Juno would want him to eat.

Maybe Peter should have let Sorine’s goons kill him, he muses. Maybe he should give up on the ointments and antibiotics and let his body wither away. Maybe that’s the only way he’ll know for sure the crew won’t be harmed.

Pills. Bandages…

Juno wouldn’t want Peter to die.

The fact occurs to Peter some nebulous amount of time later. He’s back on the hotel bed, turned towards the door like he expects Juno to waltz through with a cup of tea. Peter’s thoughts slip and blur so that the past overlays the present:

He feels the cold burn of metal under his fist; the give of Martian dirt where he kneels before the door.

_You don’t have to do this alone, you idiot!_

He feels the brush of fingers on his cheek and smells black tea.

_You don’t have to do this alone. So please don’t try._

Without conscious permission, Peter’s hand closes around Ronny’s comms. He doesn’t know why. He can’t call Juno. He can’t put the whole team's lives at risk. He _won’t._ It would undermine his whole plan. Juno would want to help. Juno would tell the crew. Juno would search for him, and Sorine would catch the whole show on camera.

If Sorine finds out Peter’s alive…what will have been the point of all this? What will Ronny have died for?

Peter drops Ronny's comms on the bed. His body feels like a furnace, his mind like cotton. He could have cellulitis, or sepsis. His organs could start to shut down. He needs a doctor.

Peter could talk to Vespa. He could warn everyone about the cameras. He could…

No. It’s too much of a risk. Peter curls up around the comms.

He can’t. He can’t. He can’t.

Sunrise cuts between the blinds. He can’t.

The bandages on Peter’s arm smell of must. He can’t. 

Peter’s bags gather dust. He can’t.

_“I love you.”_

He can’t.

But Peter knows Juno would ask him to, so the next day he does anyway.

Juno picks up on the second ring.

“Who is this?”

Peter says: “Don’t react. There are cameras on the ship. Make up a casual conversation and go to the garage. There won’t be any spyware where the Ruby could have run a sweep.”

A pause. Peter swears the whole universe stops. 

Then Juno says, “Yeah, Mick. Thanks for the call. Hey, hold on; I’m gonna get out of the hall. It’s late and I don’t want to wake anybody up.”

Peter lets out a long breath. Pressure builds behind his eyes; he feels his fingers shake where he cradles Ronny’s comms to his ear:

“A lot of trouble. Something uh—something came up. Yeah—what I texted about. I know. None of us really know what to do…let me—one more second and then I can…”

Peter hears the hiss of a door. All Juno’s casualness flees from him with a single word, cracked and lost:

“Peter?”

Peter sobs. He’s not proud of the fact, but the sound won’t be forced down.

“I’m here,” Peter confirms, once he can speak past the tears. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I couldn’t—”

“Peter—oh my god. Nureyev, oh my—”

“I had to. I had to, Juno—”

“I was so fucking scared. We—Rita saw the news and then we went to talk to the coroner and he—” He swallows. “He’d found the metal from your glasses—I couldn’t even _think_ —”

“Juno…”

“How could you do that to me?” Juno demands. “To _us?_ Do you have _any_ —” he makes a sound that goes straight between Peter's ribs, full of anger and raw, desperate grief. “It’s been…I can’t even fucking tell you how—”

“I’m so, so sorry—”

“If you mean that, you’ll _tell me what’s going on_. Everything. Right now.” 

Peter turns his comms up. He sets them on the blankets so he can wipe his face.

He says, “It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got all night.”

“All right,” Peter tells him. “All right. I…suppose I need to describe the aftermath of war to you, for any of this to make sense. I’ll try to be as concise as I can, but I’m afraid the history—”

“Wait,” Juno says suddenly. Peter stops. “Wait, fuck, never mind—don’t…I need a sec. Just give me a second.”

“Of course.”

Noontime light casts a long rectangle of sun over Peter’s shoulders. His arm aches, but not enough for him to reach for the pill bottle. He thinks he can hear the skitter of too-fast breaths across the receiver.

After a while Juno says, voice reedy,

“Are you safe right now?”

Peter wants to laugh. “You may have to be a little more specific.”

“Does anyone know where you are?”

“No.” If Sorine knew where Peter was, she’d be here.

“And can you stay there?”

“For at least another week, yes.”

“Okay. How are you hurt? What do you need?”

Peter pauses. He coughs, then says,

“…When did I say I was hurt?”

“You didn’t have to. You let us believe you were dead for—what, five days? The fact that you let that go on for so long says you were pretty set on keeping us out of the loop. But then suddenly you call me out of the blue like this—?” Peter hears the soft clomp of footsteps over the line as Juno paces. “Something must have changed, for you to _have_ to call me. You’re somewhere safe and you aren’t about to be kicked out, so that’s not it. You told me there were cameras on the ship, but you were ready to table that long enough to give me a history lecture, so we’re not about to be blown up or something. That leaves you being hurt badly enough that you had to call for help.” The footsteps stop. “Or to say goodbye.”

Peter doesn’t have a reply to that. He crooks his elbow to get a better look at the spider web of gauze up his arm. His thoughts tumble over themselves—a thousand answers he can’t bear to give.

Juno says, “Nureyev.”

Peter forms a loose fist with his fingers.

“There was a shootout,” he dislodges at last. “I was shot in the arm, and—”

“You were sho—! How are you even—god _dammit—”_

“—I also sustained several grazes. I did my best to clean and dress my wounds, but I’m afraid I’ve developed a fever.”

Juno fumbles for words; he starts one comment, then backpedals and reaches for another. At last he settles on, “I’m getting Vespa.”

“No!” Peter grabs his comms, and a bolt of pain races up his arm. “No—Juno, you can’t. It will look far too suspicious for you to receive a call, then go directly to your doctor—”

“So what, you want me to leave you like this until she wakes up? That’ll be seven hours from now! Whoever’s got you on the run like this can’t be _that_ anal-retentive—”

“She is,” Peter says, piling all the fear and dread he feels behind the words. “She absolutely is, Juno, or I never would have kept you in the dark for so long.”

Juno seems to take a second to gauge the honesty of that. Peter fills the silence: “I can last another few hours. Do I sound like I’m on death’s door to you?”

“I don’t know, Nureyev; the last time I heard you talk like this we were kind of at the mercy of an eldritch abomination—so yeah. Yeah, you do.”

“Well, I’m not. I’m too hot and too cold at once, and I have an awful headache, and I feel…” Peter glances at his arm again, as though for confirmation. “This will undoubtedly escalate. But that will be the least of our concerns if you give the game away. Just wait another four hours at least, and then…”

The pills make Peter's words skittish; he loses track of the thought. He squints at the holoclock on the bedside table, and the strips of shadow cast by the blinds. There are two plastic cups next to the lamp.

The silence stretches on and on.

Or, not complete silence. Peter can still hear Juno on the other end—the wet hitch of his breath. Peter listens to Juno cry, and stares a hole through the wall of his motel room.

Finally Juno rasps, “You’re alive.”

There are new tears on Peter’s cheeks. “I'm right here, Juno.”

Juno takes another very deep breath. Peter exhales alongside him. In that moment they take up the same space, however-many lightyears apart.

“Think I’m ready for that history lesson now,” Juno decides. “You were saying something about the war?”

“Yes.” In a vague way, Peter plucks a tissue from the table and pats his face dry. Then he blows his nose. “Sorry. Yes. The war…”

Peter searches for the right words, then starts:

“When the civil war ended on Brahma, the three rebel groups split up the spoils. As Sorine Day’s group was the smallest, they were given the husk of the Guardian Angel System as a sort of consolation prize.

“The Guardian Angel System required a vast camera network to function, as the operators would rely on a combination of satellite and video footage to determine where to direct their bolts. That meant Sorine’s group was given access to the facility’s feed as well as that of every block, shop, hotel and restaurant on Brahma—years of footage from every possible angle.

“But much of New Kinshasa’s technology was lost on the last day of the war; the main facility was ordered to destroy whatever systems they could reach before the rebel groups swarmed the premises. The software New Kinshasa used to codify its security data was lost. There was no way for Sorine to know which key command led to which of the eighty thousand cameras across Brahma. There was no way to pinpoint relevant footage amidst decades and decades-worth of backlog. The raw data was simply too vast to be accessible without a classification system.

“The way Sorine tells the story, the Tohler rebel group predicted a system restoration would take at least fifty years…but Sorine had Brahma on a platter by the turn of the decade. She developed her own programs to comb through the footage. She trained the software to recognize and transcribe lip and finger movements. She created teams to manually comb through and classify years of footage. Over the years she’s even expanded the system to other planets.

“I know that may all seem…extraneous. But Juno, I need you to understand the scope of Sorine’s power, so that you might understand why I’ve…”

Peter stops. He was tired before this conversation; now he’s the painful kind of winded, too. He might as well have run up and down the stairwell a dozen times. Peter curses his arm and his fever and waits for his strength to rekindle.

After a while Juno says, “…You still there, honey?”

Peter scoffs. “How can you still bear to call me that?”

“Because I may be _pissed_ at you, but I still love you.” A pause. “I need you to hear that, okay? I’m a fucking mess right now, and I don’t know what to say or what’s even _true_ anymore except that I’m _pissed_ and I love you so much and I’m so, so fucking happy you’re alive.”

He trips over the last part, too choked up to go on. Peter turns his face down against the bed. He clutches at his blanket, hard enough that his knuckles blanch.

At last he turns his head and croaks, “I was so sure I’d never hear your voice again.”

“Nureyev…”

“I’m sorry. I’ll get on with the story.” It takes him another second or two to sweep the fog from his head: “Where was—yes. The discovery of the motherboard.

“The New Kinshasans had been careful when they designed the Guardian Angel System to ensure that only they would have access to the technology. Its motherboard was what allowed New Kinshasa’s lasers to sync up with a desired ground location; only one motherboard was ever created, with no way to reverse engineer the results. It too was destroyed on the last day of the war.

“However—a little over seven years ago, Sorine’s transcription program decoded an old comms call between two of New Kinshasa’s top weapon engineers. There was a secret second motherboard on Brahma. Sorine was able to dredge up a location within the year. If the Tohlers ever found out, they’d claim ownership of the tech as property of their military devision, so Sorine elected to sell the motherboard—and by extension, the key to the Guardian Angel System as a weapon of mass destruction—on the black market.”

“You couldn’t let that happen,” Juno says quietly. “You couldn’t let that tech get out to other planets, so you tried to steal it.”

Peter shuts his eyes. “The key word being _tried_ , yes. Sorine caught me and held me for several days. Then she offered to sell me the motherboard on a payment plan.”

“Oh, Peter...”

“It took me nearly a decade to cover my debts—but the map, blade, book and key were finally enough to tip me over the line. I didn’t know whether Sorine would give me the motherboard, or have me killed and run off with my final payment—but I had to try.” Peter’s left hand finds the gauze on his arm; he picks at a frayed edge. “Her cronies did give me the motherboard, but they also—threatened you, and the crew. They wanted me to pay them not to—to kill you. They showed me photos that they shouldn’t have been able to…” Peter can smell blood and dust and burned straw—feel the hug of Ronny’s coat sleeves on his wrists. “I panicked. If I had only agreed to their terms—but suddenly Renard was dead and…one of the men was tall enough for his body to pass as my own. I shot him. I started a fire with him at the center and I ran.

“Sorine may be ruthless, but she won’t get her hands dirty without due cause. With no one to blackmail there would be no reason to hold you hostage. So I…let you assume I was dead. I couldn’t risk—”

“You could have,” Juno says sternly. “You know that. We could’ve _helped_ you—”

“You couldn’t have. You still can’t. There are cameras on the Carte Blanche; Sorine knows how to find you. If there aren’t already traps or weapons on the ship, she could still have you followed and killed at any time—”

“Oh, what, you mean like Dark Matters? If they haven’t been able to catch up to us, then why the hell would _Sorine_ —”

“Sorine Day is _not_ Dark Matters,” Peter snaps. Juno tries to talk over him, but he plows on: “No—Juno, listen to me. Dark Matters allowed me to become an agent within four months, all on faulty paperwork. No references; no referrals. They have a vast array of tech at their disposal but are chronically disorganized. And now we have one of their most powerful subdirectors on our side. Sorine—” Nausea clenches his stomach. Peter feels his mind start to slip backwards, down and down towards sleep, but he fights back against the tide: “In my twenty years as a thief, I’ve only been caught—not trapped, or arrested, or _nearly_ kidnapped, but well and truly _caught_ —twice. Once by Miasma, and the other—” He huffs. “Even Miasma couldn’t track me the way Sorine has, Juno. She didn’t _know_ me like Sorine does.”

The receiver turns Juno’s sigh to static. “Okay, but that still doesn’t make any sense. This woman’s more powerful than Dark Matters and Miasma, so your chances are better going up against her _alone?”_

“It’s not about _chances—”_

“Then what _is_ it about?” Juno demands. “What made you think you couldn’t trust us to help you? If you had just _told_ me or the crew we could’ve…” Peter hears a harsh thump, like a hand against a wall. “Dammit, I don’t know! Found another way to get the motherboard, or at least have been there to protect you at the handoff! I thought we promised we’d be more open with each other—was all that a lie? After everything we’ve been through together, _how_ could you think you had to do this alone? Why didn’t you just _say something?”_

 _“Because this has happened before,”_ Peter cries. “A weapon of mass destruction—you and I, up against the world? _Does that ring a bell, Juno?_ We worked together then, and we were still captured! We worked together and we were still _tortured_ , because of _me_.” Peter clutches his wounded arm hard enough to hurt; he bites back another sob. “Juno, you don’t—there was a day near the end when they dragged you back to the cell by your legs, and you were so _still_ and I—I had to hold your bloody, broken body and know I was the reason you were there. I was the reason you lost your _eye_. I could have stolen the car and the coordinates myself but I chose to take you with me.” His chest heaves. Sweat gathers on his brow. He’s so cold, and so tired. “I won’t do that to you again. I won’t make you or the rest of the crew suffer for my mistakes. I _refuse.”_

There's silence after that. A car pulls out of the lot outside. Someone turns on a washer down the hall. Peter doesn’t take his hand off his arm. The sunbeam has shifted on the bed covers, and dust motes catch the light.

At last Juno says, barely loud enough to be heard over the traffic outside: 

_“Oh, Peter._ Oh, god, no. That’s not…”

Another long pause, then a sniffle on the other end of the phone. Juno says,

“I didn’t—I’m so sorry you’ve had to carry that around for so long. I know what that feels like. But what happened down there wasn’t your fault. Miasma—I would’ve gone through all that shit anyway, with or without you there to help me through it. Once I swallowed that stupid pill—I was done for. You have to know that.

“But you _saved_ me. You saved _us._ You broke out, and got us to that chamber. If you hadn’t done that, Miasma would’ve blown our heads off and shut herself away with the egg.” A beat. “Things are different now. We weren’t much of a team back then, but now we’re…we _fit._ And we have a whole crew at our back. If we did that train heist today, there’s no way Buddy would’ve let Miasma take us.”

Peter still doesn’t move. His arm burns. His body aches. Juno goes on:

“I can’t promise you something like Miasma won’t happen again, because I can’t tell the future and we get up to a lot of dangerous shit. But I do know our chances are better when we have people around to look out for us. To check our blind spots.

“Peter? I know the stakes are high right now. If you want to run off and live somewhere off-grid…I’d understand. That’s your choice. But I—I can’t cut myself off from the rest of the world like that. I don’t have to stay with the crew, but I need to be able to contact them. I couldn’t follow you, and that kills me because I…” he laughs. Fabric rustles. “The plan wasn’t to tell you like this. I mean—yeah. Of _course_ this wasn't the plan. But I want…”

He stops. Peter’s grip on his arm has started to loosen. He stares at the black screen of Ronny’s comms.

Juno says, “I want to be with you, for as long as I can. As long as you’ll have me. It’s a lot, but I—fuck.” A second thunk. “This shouldn’t be so hard. Only an hour ago I would’ve torn the whole galaxy apart for the chance to tell you this, and now somehow _I got my miracle_ and I can’t seem to…”

“Juno—”

“I want to spend my life with you.”

It’s like Peter’s whole life snags. All the files vanish from his head. In the dust of the wreckage, Juno marches on:

“I love you, and I don’t want to lose you. I want to make this work.”

“Oh god.” Peter can barely get the words out; his chest feels too full. He gasps, “I want that, too. Juno—I want—oh god, I want that so much—”

 _“Then let me help you_ ,” Juno begs. “I know you’re scared I’ll get hurt. That’s more than fair, with the work we do. But you know I’ve been there. Hell, that’s one of the reasons I ran away from our hotel room—I felt like the people around me always got hurt or killed, and I couldn’t let that happen to you.” Another long gap, presumably as Juno gathers his thoughts. “Listen. For most of my life I’ve run away from people, or cut them out of my life to keep them safe—or, to keep myself safe. But at some point I decided I wanted to get better. And I realized that I couldn’t have both. I couldn’t be happy and keep people safe—because to keep everybody safe I had to be alone, and I couldn’t be happy when I was alone, and…I kind of came to terms with the fact that I’d decided what everybody wanted for them, and that wasn’t okay—? People like Rita and Mick—people like you—they’d looked at the risks and decided they still wanted to be around me. And I’d decided on their behalf that I knew better, and I took that decision away from them.

“So…I had to own up to that, and learn to trust people to look after themselves. And risk the hurt. If somebody wanted to be around me, I had to let them take responsibility for that choice.

"It’s been…one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, Nureyev. Letting myself get close to you guys, and letting you get close to me. And fuck, I’ve always been so scared I was gonna lose one of you, and then I _did_ and I—” He stumbles. Peter pictures Juno with his head leant back against the wall, his coat sunk down over his shoulders. “ _I’m scared too,_ okay? But we can work through that, can't we? We can be there for each other—you, me, and the rest of the crew. It might take a while, but we can make a life together that’s worth the risk.”

This time Peter is too tired to wipe away his tears. “Do you…honestly believe that?”

“It’s taken me a long time to get there, but…yeah. I’ve seen that. What we could be. And now I…I really do.”

Peter doesn’t know how to react. Juno lets the silence linger for a while—lets the two of them simply coexist, and relish the fact that they’re both alive to share this moment.

Then he says,

“Where are you, Peter?”

And Peter tells him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These two've still got a lot to talk about, soooo...stay tuned for the last chapter! 
> 
> Don't mind me...boldly assuming Sasha will end the season on the crime family's side and not as their nemesis...
> 
> This fic has got me all tangled up like a turtle in a net; I can't remember the last time I struggled this hard to get through a fic! Comments are greatly appreciated OTL
> 
> LOVE YOU ALL! Remember to go to the hospital when you get a bad burn lol


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere along the line this became "The Fire, The Flood" 2.0, so...for those of you who've read that fic...get ready for That All Over Again I Guess ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ SORRY I COULDN'T FIGURE OUT HOW ELSE TO UP THE STAKES AND MAKE THE PARALLEL DOOR SCENE HAPPEN

Peter gets a second phone call. He doesn’t have to check the number; he and Juno discussed this.

The second the call connects, Vespa shouts,

 _"You motherfucker!_ I oughta’ rip your _guts_ out and throw ‘em to the _birds!”_

“I’m so sorry, Vespa.”

“You think I care?! Fuck off!” There’s a loud crash. Vespa seems to stuff down her anger, then says, “Juno told me about your burn. Send a photo.”

Peter does as he’s told without comment. There’s a ping as the photo transfers—and then Vespa blows out the speakers:

“ _Christ on a hovercycle!_ You asshole, what have you been treating this with? Lysol?!”

“Soap and water, antibiotic ointment and Penicillin V.”

“Did you clear away the dead skin?”

“Oh, I…no.”

“Fuck!” Another crash. “You know, we might’ve had the time to figure out how to put the Cure Mother on the market by now, and you would’ve been able to buy a cure-all formula—but we’ve wasted the past couple weeks on your stupid wild goose chase!” Peter hears the clomp of boots. “I swear, Ransom—Nureyev—whoever the hell you are today: If you die of septic shock, I’m gonna come down there and resuscitate you _just so I can kill you a third time!”_

“I would prefer to avoid that scenario, if you have any medical advice.”

Vespa growls. “My _advice_ is for you to get your ass to a hospital. But since there’s no way for you to _do that_ without getting caught on camera—Juno has your address. I’ve already sent a delivery drone with a dose of the Cure Mother.”

Peter feels his brow furrow. “Surely you’re too far away to reach me.”

“We were on Brahma two days ago to check out your _murder,_ genius. We’re still only about a planet away. It’ll take two days to reach you, tops.”

“Thank you.”

Shame twists up Peter’s gut. He and Vespa had been on the very precipice of friendship when Peter took off with the crew’s spoils. They’ll have to start from scratch now; maybe they’ll never regain the ground they’ve lost. Peter wants to tell Vespa how much she and the rest of the crew mean to him—how much he regrets what he did—but despite his short nap between calls, he’s already back on the verge of sleep. In the end he only manages to say, “Any other updates?”

“Rita did a deep scan from her room. Took a couple tries, but she found all the cameras. Apparently they’re the size of pinheads—no room for any kind of weaponry.”

“And you haven’t taken them do—”

“Of course we haven’t taken them down!” Vespa snarks. “What are we to you, circus monkeys?! She gets any sense you told us about the cameras, that Sorine lady and her pals’ll be on us like a ton of bricks.”

“Good—yes. Of course. I apologize.”

“Still don’t care!” There's the distant tap-tap of a keypad. “How’s the fever? How do you feel?”

“My…whole body aches. I’m cold. Tired.”

“And when’s the last time you peed?”

Peter frowns. “What?”

“Peed!” Vespa pronounces. “Urinated! Passed water! _Took a leak!_ ”

“I’m not…sure. Must have been…eight hours ago?”

That must be a bad answer, because Vespa makes another dark noise. “Got any nausea?”

Peter feels his eyelids start to droop. “A little.”

“Okay. I’m gonna go get you that Cure Mother dose. Don’t die again while I’m gone.”

She hangs up. Peter’s already asleep.

“I’m a murderer, Juno.”

Peter hears a shuffle as Juno moves his comms from one ear to the other. “So am I.”

“No, Juno. Not like I am. You’ve killed people on accident, or to protect yourself. I’ve killed people for no other reason than because they were in my way.”

Juno sighs. “Yeah. I’m sure Jet has too, and Vespa and Buddy.”

“So why?” Peter asks. He’s teetered on the ledge of this question for half a year now, every night that Juno came over to talk on the ‘Blanche. “Why do…how can you stand to work with us? To care about us?”

Ronny’s comms go quiet. Peter focuses on his heartbeat—the low thrum of blood down his arms and legs. There’s a nutrient bar on the bedside table he can’t bear to look at, much less finish.

Juno says, “If you were here right now, do you know what I’d do?”

Peter’s fingers are cramped where they clutch at Ronny’s comms. “No. No, I don’t.”

“Well, I’d put my hand on your cheek, and I’d kiss you right on the bridge of your nose…and I’d tell you I don’t know.” His laugh verges on self-deprecating. “I honestly don’t know, Peter. I guess…everything’s been so black and white for me, all my life. You’ve killed people, and I love you, and maybe that makes me a bad person. But now…I’m sick of those labels. I know what kind of person I want to take down, and you’re not one of them. You and Jet and Buddy and Vespa are different people, like I’m a different person.”

“I’m not,” Peter says. He can feel the ghost of Juno’s fingers on his cheek; a fantom kiss on his forehead. “I’m not different..."

Peter’s strength flickers then. He dips under the surface of sleep for a moment, but resurfaces:

“I told a man I wouldn’t kill him and then I shot him and burned his body. I murdered him for a plan I sabotaged.”

Jet says, “I am familiar with your dilemma, though I’m sure that confession was meant for Juno's ears, not mine.”

Peter flounders at this sudden change: “Jet? Where…what did…”

“You fell asleep. As our auto and aerospace engineer, I have the excuse to spend a prolonged amount of time in the garage. Juno had not slept for two days, and he agreed to take a short nap on the condition that I kept you company.”

Two days. Peter bites his lip. “Thank you. I’m sure you’d rather not…play babysitter to your double-crosser.”

“Ransom,” Jet says, with a tone that zips Peter’s lips shut. “I did not like you when we first met because you reminded me too much of my younger self; all reckless chicanery with no regard for human life. My perception of you has changed since then, as has my perception of my old self. I understand that you felt you had a duty to the galaxy. I would like to see you returned to the Carte Blanche as soon as possible.”

Peter holds Ronny’s comms away from his face. He almost has to wonder whether they’re broken somehow, or he’s still asleep. As the reality of the situation dawns on him, his throat tightens.

Peter says, “Jet. I—”

“You said you had murdered a man,” Jet prompts. “Would you like to talk about it?”

Peter can’t help but laugh. He cups a shaking hand over his eyes.

“It shouldn’t matter to me,” he rasps. “I’ve killed enough people not to care. But I…I’ve always had the option to bury my regret. Now…” Peter shakes his head. “It’s as though being with you all has opened something—opened a door inside of me and I can’t close it anymore. I killed a man and I don’t think I needed to and I don’t…I can’t…”

He stops. He can’t stand to touch Ronny’s comms anymore; he sets them back down on the covers, with Jet on speaker.

Jet doesn’t react right away. Peter braces for his response.

Jet says, “You have committed an unspeakable act. Now you must live with it.”

He doesn’t go on. The hand slips off Peter’s face. He’s surprised to feel a cold calm settle over him.

It’s what he needed to hear, somehow. Peter knows that Juno would've tried to reassure him. This—a merciless statement of facts—feels closer to the truth.

Peter has done terrible things, and he has to keep going anyway. That’s all he can ever know for certain.

Out of nowhere, with a kind of softness Peter has ever heard from him before, Jet adds, “You won’t have to face this alone, Ransom.”

Peter clenches his teeth; pressure builds behind his eyes. He musters up his courage. Despite the nausea and the fatigue, he reaches for the nutrient bar on the bedside table.

“You know my real name now, don’t you?” Peter says as he pulls down the foil. “Call me Nureyev.”

“Nureyev.”

Peter meanders back towards consciousness. A haze of white shapes arrange themselves to form pillows and a comforter. Peter sees Ronny’s comms trapped between two mounds of blanket. He remembers a call with Juno—he must have dozed off between sentences.

“Sorry,” Peter slurs to the comms.

“You fall asleep on me?”

“Mmn.”

Juno goes quiet for a bit. Peter’s eyes start to slip closed—but Juno catches him before he can float away: “Honey. We figured out a plan to come get you.”

“…What? Now?”

“Yeah. We decided we can’t let you lie there for two days while some delivery drone putters across the star system. It’d be faster to take a ship. Vespa says you’re…”

He doesn’t finish—but he doesn’t need to. Peter gets the gist.

“…Dare I ask about the plan?” he says.

“It’s pretty simple. I’ll stand where we know a camera’ll overhear me, and Vespa and Jet and I will say we’re headed to Thyret. Then we’ll take the Ruby down to _Phast_. We'll rent a ship and a car—we can use the ship to land on Brahma, and the car to get to your motel.”

Peter’s brain stutters like an old steam engine. “Juno, I can’t board the Carte Blanche with those cameras online. And Soline’s security cameras will see you through the car windows.”

“Nope—she’ll see a hologram. Dark Matter’s tech, courtesy of Sasha Wire. And while we’re gone, Rita’s supposed to pretend to ‘find’ one of the cameras with a routine sweep. She’ll have broken them all by the time we get back.”

Peter frowns. “I’m…please don’t take this the wrong way, Juno—Rita has many talents, but she’s never been the most… _subtle_ actress—”

“She doesn’t have to be, once she finds the first camera.” A pause. “But I get what you mean. Trust me; she likes to pretend she’s the star of a soap, sure, but when lives are on the line…Rita knows the difference between drama and _melodrama._ She can put on a serious face.”

Peter wants to argue, but the words won’t come.

_Trust me._

Instead Peter turns his head on the pillow. He stares out across the hotel room—all the way to the metal door. His mind plays at the memory of footsteps and the click of a lock.

Peter chuckles darkly. What a cycle they’d made for each other: Peter runs; Juno runs; Peter runs…

The question falls out of him like a pebble kicked over a cliffside:

“Did you ever wonder how I knew what the name ‘Juno’ meant, when we first met?”

Juno hazards, “I guess after the fact I kind of assumed you just…would’ve had to do a lot of research, to come up with all your aliases.”

“Well, that’s partly true. I do research my names. But I also spent a week as a professor for a Greek Mythology class on Ganymede.”

“What?” Juno says, and Peter can hear his smile. “Why?”

“Access to the school’s natural history museum, of course. But I had to do a great deal of research on Earthen Greek mythological figures…”He can’t seem to look away from the hotel door. “Have you ever heard the story of Laelaps and the Teumessian Fox?”

“No. Uh. What’s it about?”

“Well. The gods sent down a gigantic fox—the Teumessian—to punish the people of Thebes.” Peter tucks his legs closer to his body and bunches his blankets up under his chin. He’s shaky and sweaty and so, so cold. “The gods designed the fox so he could never be caught. But years before, Zeus had gifted Europa a hunting dog called Laelaps. The gods had designed the dog so he always caught what he hunted.

“Laelaps passed hands over the years, and when Thebes was attacked, Amphitryon sicked Laelaps on the Teumessian Fox. So became the first paradox: a dog who always caught what he hunted, chasing a fox who could never be caught.” Peter pinches the edge of a blanket. “For whatever reason, Zeus decided a paradox had no place on Earth. He turned Laelaps and the Teumessian fox into constellations—Canis Major and Canis Minor respectively…thus condemning them to an eternal chase, the fox fleeing the dog and the dog hunting the fox in a never-ending circle.”

Silence. Peter focuses on his wound, the pain muted to a dull throb. A thin strip of hallway light pokes out from under Peter’s door. Two window blinds clack together, nudged by the air from the vents.

Juno murmurs, “We’re not legends, Nureyev, or constellations.” A pause. “We’re not even a detective and a thief. We’re two people. We aren’t ‘condemned’ to run forever. We can always stop.”

Peter laughs weakly. “How?”

“I mean. Like this, right? Like you did yesterday, when you called me. You decided to contact me, and then you decided to let us help you, and now I’m on my way to come find you. That sounds like the right track to me.”

Peter wants to respond, but he can only hold off the fatigue for so long. As he drifts off, he hears Juno say, “Nureyev? Nureyev, honey, I need you to try to stay awake for me. We’re almost there. Just try to stay awake a little longer…”

_It’s 3am. Peter wakes to the rustle of clothes. He stays very still, turned away from the door as Juno buckles his belt—puts on his coat._

Peter can’t move. He can smell his own sweat, and the mess of his arm. He hasn’t taken a pill for a long time, but he can barely feel the pain. He doesn’t even feel the cold.

_Then there are footsteps, then the swish of the door—and Peter can’t help himself. He pleads, “Juno…”_

He’s not sure whether he’s awake or asleep anymore. A car honks outside. Dawn paints the room a dull pink.

_Peter can see Juno’s shadow on the wall, thrown all the way across the room. It shifts with Juno’s footsteps. Juno turns back towards the hotel room—towards him. Peter’s heart beats hard and frantic like a captured bird._

Ronny’s comms beep. And beep, and beep, and beep…

_Then the door closes with Juno on the other side. The shadow vanishes._

_Peter rolls over. He stares at the rumpled sheets where Juno had fallen asleep, and then at the door—the cool metal, and the wooden frame._

It leers at him from across the room.

_Peter remembers, “This is the way it’s gotta be, Nureyev.”_

There are footsteps down the hall—loud and fast. They stop outside Peter’s door. Peter doesn’t have the strength to tense up—to grab his knife.

_“Open the door,” Peter begs. He’s not sure whether he says the words aloud or only mouths them. “Please. Please turn around. Please come back. Please open the door..."_

There’s a sharp crack. The door opens, and Juno Steel crashes through the entryway.

Peter doesn’t come back all at once. He feels wetness on his neck first, then pressure—two arms, one wound taut around his back and the other bent so a hand can clutch at Peter’s hair. After days of unshakable cold, the chest against Peter’s feels hotter than desert sand. There’s a barely-there push and pull as Juno rocks Peter's body back and forth.

Sound comes next. Peter hears the hum of a ship engine; the far-away whir of ventilation ducts. Juno has his face turned down between Peter’s neck and shoulder. Peter can feel his lips move against his clavicle as he whispers:

“Please, please, please, please, please…”

There’s pain where Juno crushes Peter’s arm to his side, albeit muted from the pills. Peter doesn’t care. His head feels clear; his lungs can hold more than a pinch of oxygen; his body aches with the relief of Juno's hands and chest and mouth.

Someone—Vespa—says, _“Juno.”_

Juno’s mantra stops. He tilts his head back, far enough to see Peter’s face.

Peter gives a wobbly smile. Juno’s shocked expression crumples. He makes a desperate sound, and his hands rush to frame Peter’s face. Peter finds he has the strength to sit up without the support of Juno’s arms. He ducks his head. Juno surges up to meet him.

At first Juno's kisses are fast and frantic—like he expects Peter to disappear right out from under him. Then Peter cups the back of Juno’s head. He crowds closer, and opens his mouth around Juno's. Juno makes a broken little whine. He starts to slump; his hands go slack on Peter's cheeks. In quiet turns, Peter coaxes him down from his breakneck pace. 

At last Peter tilts back to press a long kiss to Juno’s forehead. Juno grasps at his shirt. He’s a quiet crier, but this close Peter can hear the way his breath hitches.

“I'm here,” Peter says hoarsely. Juno’s shoulders shake. He gasps out Peter’s name. Peter pulls him to his chest, heedless to his burns: “It’s over. It’s over…”

Once she’s sure the Cure Mother has taken, Vespa cleans and bandages Peter’s arm, shoves a plastic cast cover at his hands and storms off down the hall. She takes the motherboard with her. Peter doesn’t try to follow her. Vespa will talk to him when she's ready.

Jet can’t afford to leave his post at the helm to check on Peter. Juno, meanwhile, stays glued to Peter’s side for his whole checkup. Peter couldn’t be more grateful for the company. 

“Shower’s over here,” Juno says, and leads them out of the main cabin. He seems to register his own grip on Peter's good arm; he flushes and veers away.

Peter chases after him. He feels Juno’s whole body relax as he hooks their fingers, then reels him back to his side.

Juno smiles, but Peter’s chest feels heavy. He has a world of trust to earn back. He squeezes Juno’s hand. Juno squeezes back.

It’s a short walk. Jet has rented them a small but comfortable ship, with two bedrooms and a single bathroom. They reach a doorway, and Juno stops.

“I brought some of the clothes from um…” he scratches the back of his head. “You left some clothes in my closet. I’ll go get them and bring them to you—?”

Peter winces. He’d stolen a shirt from the motel laundry room, but he hasn’t had the energy to visit the washers over the past three days; he wonders how Juno can stomach the stench of sweat and sickness on his clothes. “Thank you, Juno.”

“No problem.” Juno grazes the door pad with his thumb, and the door opens. “I’ll be right back. Unless you want some space—”

“No, no,” Peter assures him. “I’d…rather not be alone right now. If you’re…at all comfortable—”

“Of course I am.”

“All right, then.”

A pause. Juno can’t seem to let go of Peter’s hand.

Peter wishes he could tell Juno he’ll never leave again—but he knows the words would ring hollow. That’s a promise he can only prove with his actions.

In his helplessness, Peter lifts Juno’s hand to his lips.

“I’ll see you in a minute,” he murmurs, and kisses him there.

Juno searches his face. He opens his mouth, then seems to backtrack. He leans up, pecks Peter on the lips, and starts away down the hall.

Peter watches him go. Then he turns to the open bathroom door. He steps out onto the tiles and turns on the day cycle lights.

It’s a nice space, for such a small ship. Peter marvels at the silver edge of the shower door; the warped reflection of the light fixtures on the ceramic sink. He’s grown so used to the brain fog over the past week that even the most mundane pieces of furniture appear brilliant in their sheer clarity.

Peter strips off his clothes. It takes him a minute to figure out how to put on his plastic cast cover. Once he’s sure his bandages are protected, he turns to the shower.

Peter sets the water pressure to low. The hiss of water against tile fills the room. Peter closes the translucent shower door behind him and eases under the spray. He winces at the sting, then turns so that the stream won’t hit his burned arm. He’s kept himself so doped up over the past week that he’s almost forgotten the extent of his burns; the pain has started to creep up on him now like a monster from the shadows. The Cure Mother can heal an infection—even speed up the production of collagen. But it won’t block Peter’s pain receptors.

There’s a warning knock at the door. Peter calls out his permission. Past the water, he can make out the shape of Juno as he enters the bathroom, reduced to a ruddy cluster of shapes through the haze of the shower door. Peter hears him close the door behind him, then a tiny clunk where he sits down on the toilet lid.

Juno doesn’t say anything, so neither does Peter. There’s a tension between them suddenly, like the moment before glass shatters. Peter struggles to uncap a shampoo bottle with one hand. He lathers up his hair—quicker than he’d like. He knows a ship of this caliber won’t have a lot of hot water.

Peter has worse luck with the conditioner. It slips between his fingers and strikes the shower floor.

There’s a flurry of color as Juno launches himself off the toilet seat:

“Nureyev—?!”

“I’m fine!” Peter reassures, loud enough to be heard over the water. “I’m fine, Juno—I’m fine. It’s all right. I only dropped the conditioner.”

Juno pauses. Then he deflates back onto the toilet seat.

The loud noise startled Peter, too. He feels like some central part of him has been knocked off-center—or maybe he’s felt that way since he woke up on the ship, and he’d been too distracted to notice. It’s difficult to read himself right now. He feels a bit like the watercolor shape of Juno through the shower door; a vibrant hodgepodge of anxiety.

The water stays hot long enough for Peter to apply and wash out a blob of conditioner. He dawdles for a while longer to wash down the rest of his body, careful to keep his wounded arm from the center of the spray. The pain creeps down his arm like venom from a snake bite. Even his good hand shakes where he turns the faucet and opens the shower door.

Peter finds a towel on the rack. It’s his old one from the Carte Blanche.

“Rita reminded me to grab that,” Juno says, as Peter runs a hand over the worn fibers. “And Buddy packed me a couple of mint tea bags.”

Peter slips the towel off the rung and steps out of the shower. As he dries himself, he coughs to clear the lump from his throat.

“I’ll have to thank them when we get back,” he croaks.

Juno’s shoes make a soft sound as he stands. He crosses the small distance to Peter, who lets the towel go still around his shoulders.

Peter wonders whether he’ll ever forget that he’s vulnerable like this. Even when he trusts Juno like he trusts the stars to shine, or gravity—there’s always a part of his brain that lights up when he’s alone and unarmed and so very, very exposed.

 _Danger_ , his mind flashes as Juno reaches out a hand. He looks up at Peter.

Peter smoothes down the wrinkles—flips off the alarm. He’s safe. He nods.

The very tips of Juno’s fingers graze the skin along Peter’s clavicle—as close as he can come to his wounded shoulder before he hits the bandage cover. His hand trails sideways and down his sternum, past the barely-there twin scars under his pecs and on to the burn marks across his lower chest and stomach, where Ellis’ body hadn’t been enough to block his cronies’ laser blasts.

Peter watches the slow progression of Juno’s fingers—the way they connect one mark to the other. After a while his hand settles more firmly along Peter’s ribs. Peter shivers.

Juno straightens, and the hand disappears. He says, “Did you ever hear those stories about people who…knew their wife or son or dad had died because they felt this sudden pain, or grief out of nowhere?”

“I suppose I have, yes.”

“That was part of why I couldn’t believe Ben was dead, even when I saw the blood and held his body. I felt like I would’ve known deep down, before I went home. Before I saw him. ” Juno ducks his head. “It took me…a long time, to decide those stories weren’t real. Or that maybe they were real, but they didn’t apply to me, and that didn’t...mean I didn’t love him enough.”

Juno pinches Peter’s towel between his fingers. When Peter makes no move to stop him, he pulls it off his shoulders. He circles around and wipes at the space between Peter’s shoulder blades; he must have caught on to the fact that Peter couldn’t reach his upper back with only one hand.

Peter almost wants to tell Juno to stop. The way he combs him dry betrays a quiet reverence, despite Juno’s dull tone—a care and love that Peter doesn’t deserve. Before he can protest, though, Juno goes on:

“So. When Rita showed me the coroner’s report, I couldn’t trust my gut. I wanted to, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t…have _faith_ that you were alive, because as far as I can tell? As far as life’s taught me, over and over? There’s no…magical thread of fate that snaps back at you when someone dies. There’s just…”

His hand slows to a stop on Peter’s back. He’s dry now but for his hair, ankles and feet.

“There’s just…?” Peter prompts quietly.

Juno sighs. He passes him the towel. “Vespa says you were really pushing it with the meds. She gave me something a little lighter for you…it should still take the edge off.”

He gestures to the bathroom counter. Peter’s clothes are folded up and stacked beside a glass of water; a single pill sits on top of his shirt.

Peter towels down his hair, then wipes his feet. He takes the pill and unfolds the first layer of clothes. Peter discovers his softest pair of pants; the boxers he wears to bed on warm nights; the cotton shirt he “borrowed” from Juno after a heist and never returned. These aren’t a random handful of clothes Juno grabbed from his closet on his way out the door. He went out of his way to find Peter’s most comfortable clothes.

Peter’s fingers curl around the fabric of his boxers. He pulls them on, then his pants. He holds the folded shirt to his chest. He looks at Juno and says,

“I’m so sorry.”

“I know.” Juno keeps his head turned down towards the floor, his shoulders hunched up to his ears.

The shower head drips. Steam clings to the mirror. Peter shifts the fabric of Juno’s shirt up and back between his thumb and forefinger.

He puts the shirt on.

“Want to go make some of that tea?” Juno asks.

Peter smoothes the borrowed shirt down over his torso. He takes a step closer to Juno.

Juno makes a small noise. He opens his arms. Peter slots between them. He holds Juno with his good arm.

“Choices,” he murmurs, and turns his face down against his shoulder.

“What?”

“If there are no strings of fate to bind us together…then that leaves you and I, and the choices we make. That’s all that's left.”

Peter hears Juno swallow.

“When I told you I wanted to spend my life with you,” he says. “Did you mean what you…”

“I did.” Peter doesn’t try to hide the way his voice wobbles. “Every word. I choose you. I choose you, and the crew, and what’s real. And I’ll be here. Whether or not you trust me to be, for as long as you’ll have me.”

Juno pulls back. The way he looks at Peter makes him feel like he could steal the stars.

“I love you,” Peter says, and somehow he has the tears left to cry. “I love you, I love you, I love you…”

Juno surges up and kisses him.

They brew some tea. Juno escorts Peter to a seat next to one of the larger portholes; the two huddle there like cornered rabbits, pressed together from hip to shoulder. Juno rests his head on Peter’s unwounded arm, Peter’s head tucked atop Juno’s.

It’ll be another five hours or so before they reach the Carte Blanche. Peter’s gut roils with anxiety.

Juno gestures to Peter's cup: “You’re shaking.”

“Only nerves,” Peter reassures.

Juno doesn’t look convinced. Peter scratches at the chipped edge of his cup. He dislodges his arm enough to lift his drink to his mouth and puff away the steam. He takes a sip. A sense of calm seeps down his spine, spurred on by the homey mint smell.

Once he feels tethered enough to go on, he says, “I can’t even be sure whether or not I survived. This all feels too…perfect. To be back with you, on our way home. I’d convinced myself that the only way out was…that I _deserved_ to…”

His throat closes up. His tea swishes where he tilts the mug back and forth. Juno presses a fierce kiss to Peter’s shoulder. 

“Thank you,” Peter finishes. “For giving me another chance, after I hurt you so badly.”

Juno hums. “Doesn’t excuse what happened, but—I get why you did what you did. Who knows what I would’ve done, with an omnipotent tech-warlord hot on my heels.” A nebula scrolls by. “Nureyev. The crew…they’re pissed at you like I’m pissed at you. But they still want you around, and they want to take down Sorine. We can work with that, right?”

Peter makes to answer, then stops. Juno doesn’t prod him, so he sets down his cup and stares out the porthole. Juno takes his hand.

Peter tracks the stars, and thinks about how far apart they are from one another. He thinks about patterns, and cycles. He thinks about the press of Juno’s body all along his side, and the way their fingers fit together—the way Juno’s thumb brushes up and back over his own.

Peter gives a shaky laugh. “I’m terrified,” he admits.

The light catches Juno’s hair. He nudges his head closer on Peter’s shoulder.

“I’ll be right here with you,” he promises.

Peter trusts him. The next time he looks out the porthole, he doesn't connect the stars outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was a wild adventure! Thank you guys so much for reading!!
> 
> I sent a message to my amazing friend Mel while wrestling with the Teumessian myth that asked, "What's the difference between being _caught _and being _found?"_ And Mel said the difference to him was about intent, which got me thinking about consent as it relates to being found vs. being caught...I didn't find a way to fit that conversation into the story itself, but I thought I'd mention it here since that's where the title comes from!__
> 
> A note on Sorine: “Sorine” means “thunder god.” In the Teumessian Fox myth, Zeus was the one who turned the fox and the dog into constellations. Also, 1. the Guardian Angel System kills people with bolts of electricity/lightning, and 2. Zeus was thought to have omnipotent powers, where he could see everything from his throne on Mount Olympus. 
> 
> _COMMENTS MAKE ME SCREAM LIKE A TEA KETTLE! IN A GOOD WAY!_  
> 


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